The Disreputable Dealership
by nicknamewizard
Summary: Sherlock decides that he and John need to buy a car... At 2 in the morning. Shenanigans ensue! Written as Halloween prompt for my little bro.


The Disreputable Dealership

**A/N: **This is something I wrote, well, last year, actually. Thought I'd post it in time for Halloween! It's a little cracky, and Sherlock is admittedly OOC, but it's not meant to be taken too seriously. Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes decided that he needed to get a car. Hailing a cab every couple of hours was a time-consuming and unreliable means of transportation. Imagine what would happen if a suspect got into a cab and escaped while Sherlock and John were dicking around trying to find one for themselves! Not to mention the time lost in giving directions to the cabbie and then paying at the end. Sherlock abhorred wasting time. And so, he decided that the time was ripe for him and John to buy an automobile of their very own.

He presented his decision to John moments after deciding it. Time was a-wasting, after all, and the car wasn't going to buy itself.

"Hey, John! Wake up!" Sherlock called, leaping onto the bed at John's feet excitedly. The man in question bolted upright, instantly awake. He scrambled to cover his bare chest with his comforter.

"Bloody… Jumping Jesus Christ, Sherlock! I'm not wearing any clothes!" He glared up at his flatmate.

Sherlock plopped down so he was eye-level with his friend, crossing his legs underneath him. "Well, get some on, then!" he said brightly. "We have people to see; places to be!" He swung himself off the bed and waltzed across the room to John's bureau. Yanking open the top drawer, he reached in and threw a pair of boxers over his shoulder. He proceeded to do the same with socks, pants, and a shirt, and was reaching for shoes when an annoyed growl from John spun him around. Sherlock put a thoughtful finger to his lips. As a result of his careless aim, John's shirt now decorated his floor lamp, his pants were on the bookshelf, and his underwear hung limply off its owner's ear. The socks lay precisely at John's feet.

"Perfect!" Sherlock chirped. "Now really, let's go."

John groaned. "It's two in the bloody morning, Sherlock."

"I know!"

It was chilly out on Baker Street when Sherlock and John finally left their flat. Autumn was rapidly turning into winter, and no one was crazy enough to step outside at the coldest time of night. Excepting the residents of 221b, of course.

Sherlock looked up and down the street, nodding decisively at what he saw, or rather, didn't see. No cabs. With something important liable to come up at any given moment, it was foolish to be without a mode of transportation. Therefore, Sherlock reasoned, he needed a car now, before any number of things happened.

"Come, John," he said, leading the way quickly up the darkened street. The shorter man had to jog to keep pace with Sherlock's long legs. He was a truly adorable human being, the detective thought. It's why he kept him around.

"Where are we going?" the doctor whined, pining for his nice, warm bed.

"We're going to buy a car," Sherlock answered blithely.

"What…what?" John stopped in his tracks. Sherlock eyed him over his shoulder, but kept walking.

"Keep up!"

John raced back to his friend's side. "Just where do you plan on buying this car?" he asked pointedly.

Sherlock huffed. Really, for a (relatively) smart man, John sure could be dumb sometimes. "Dealership, of course."

"At two AM?"

"There's bound to be some open."

Now it was John's turn to huff impatiently. "No reputable dealership will be open this early, Sherlock."

"We'll just have to find an un-reputable one then," he said, turning left to head down a different street.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'dis-reputable'."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, details!"

They had gamboled about London for at least an hour, by John's reckoning, before they came upon a business in a dark part of town. It was open, if the obnoxious flashing lights and live rock band were anything to go by. Sherlock strolled across the grass verge that separated the lot from the street without an ounce of trepidation. John followed more warily, happy when they stopped in the shadow of a black pick-up.

"Are you sure this is where we want to be?" he asked quietly.

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock snapped, peering around the lot.

Nearly every spot was occupied by some kind of vehicle, ranging from a tiny smart-car to a riding lawnmower. The business office was in the far left corner of the lot with a large banner over the door reading "Used Cars! Buy One, Get one Half Off!" On a temporary stage to the right of the office was a rock band playing heavy metal to a crowd of moshing onlookers.

John raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And just what makes you so sure?" he asked. His whisper could scarcely be heard over the nonsensical screeching of the lead singer.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend. This relationship wasn't going to work if the man insisted upon questioning his every motive. "Notice the-"

"Okay, I wasn't looking for a thesis paper," John interrupted. "But I don't like this. Can we go home?"

"No. Can't you read? It says 'Buy One, Get one Half Off!'"

"What? That's stupid. Nobody would sell a car for half off. Besides, we don't need two cars!"

Sherlock shrugged and began walking towards the office, weaving between bikes and vans, and, for some reason, a solitary hale bale. John followed reluctantly.

"Welcome to your graaaaave!" was the first thing that John and Sherlock heard as they entered the office building. The next thing they heard was the click of the lock behind them. And then, of course, the lights went out.

John shrieked as arms grabbed him, wrapping him into a crushing embrace. He imagined the life being squeezed out of him like jam from Welch's™ squeezable jam bottles, all flat and purple and delicious. "Sherlock!" he cried, picturing himself between two slices of bread.

"Are you okay, John?!" came Sherlock's frantic voice from right next to his ear.

John instinctively turned his head, trying to see in the pitch-dark, but found his cheek pressed up against Sherlock's sharp cheekbone. "Is that you?" he whispered.

"Yeah," Sherlock whispered back.

They stilled, straining to hear the slightest sound in the darkness. John wrapped his arms more tightly around Sherlock's shoulders. He swore he could smell peanut butter. Sherlock too leaned further into John's embrace. Whoever was the ringleader of this un-reputable circus most likely wanted to probe his brain. It was the only logical explanation.

The two men stood in the dark room for what felt like forever (read: four seconds) until a light flicked on. A reddish light, low to the ground, stemming from… an evil lava lamp.

Sherlock blinked; brain still intact.

John opened his eyes; peanut butter-less.

Then it dawned on them that they were hugging for no apparent reason, so they broke apart, annoyed at themselves. Sherlock turned around to reach for the door handle. "Well, this has been fun," he began, "but-"

"Waaaaaait!" the ghostly voice wailed. Sherlock's hand dropped back to his side. "Don't you want to buy a caaaaaar?"

The detective sighed. He hated it when John was right.

"No."

Back at 221b, the two men relaxed by the fire with a hot cup of tea. Sherlock moodily plucked at the strings of his violin. All he had wanted was a car. Why had John allowed them to go gallivanting around London at the ungodly hour of two AM in search of a car, when everyone knew that no reputable dealer operated past ten? Sherlock plucked out a chord resolutely. Yes. It was all John's fault.

"Hey, what on Earth happened back there?" John asked, sipping his tea.

"Isn't it obvious?" the detective said haughtily. What a careless man, was his John. Didn't he know that Sherlock needed his beauty sleep?

"Not at all."

Sherlock smiled patronizingly at John. "Well, let me explain in a way your feeble mind can comprehend."

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, John nodded at the detective to continue.

"It would appear that we accidently stumbled upon a satanic ritual this night. Did you notice the pentagrams drawn in blood on the ground; the chickens locked in the back of the truck we stood near?" Sherlock lowered his voice dramatically. "I did. And these signs led me to believe that this was no ordinary car dealership. But I'll get back to that in a moment. Were you able to catch the lyrics to the band's song?"

John shook his head silently.

"It was an ancient demonic rite that was once used to summon the souls of the undead. And you saw the people gathered around the stage, they were dancing?"

John nodded once.

"I recognized it as the second part of an arcane ritual of praise to the devil himself."

John gulped.

"Now, to any curious late-night passers-by, it would simply look like a bunch of drunken teenagers partying to some pathetic garage rock band. But, that's just what they wanted you to think. In reality, something much more sinister was going on.

"My first inkling as to the true nature of this 'dealership' came when I saw the riding lawnmower parked exactly two spaces down and three to the right of the black pick-up. The splash pattern of the gravel under their tires told me that they had arrived at the same time; before the others did. Now, 'what is the significance of this?' you may ask. I began to realize that the 'used car sale' was nothing more than a front for what was really going on this night.

"I theorized that the owners of this enterprise had been having a bit of trouble keeping their business afloat, so they turned to another means of generating cash. Are you getting the picture, John?"

"Not really, no," John shook his head helplessly.

"Think! Ignore the satanic ritual for one moment; remember the chickens, the numerous unmarked vans. They turned the lights off the moment we set foot in their building- there was something they didn't want us to see!"

"What…? They… they're operating in… trading animals?"

"Yes! That's it, exactly! Trading exotic animals! Buying and selling used cars didn't give them a large enough cash flow, so they operated this illegal business on the side, and it was generating loads of money; they were getting rich!"

"Wait, wait, wait…" John interrupted. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "John, you can be so blind some times. I figured this out as we were walking through the door, so I pulled my phone out to check their financial records. I was trying to read their revenue and expenses when you latched onto me in the dark, but I was finally able to compare their gross income from this year to three years ago when I turned my back to open the door."

"But I didn't see you-"  
"Then you need to have your eyes checked. Stop interrupting me. I have one more point to make. Let me tell you John, this case has done a number on my sanity. In the span of one night, my imagination has been stretched a hundred different ways. I don't know if I'll ever be quite the same…"

"What are you going on about?"

"The ritual, John! Don't you get it? Exotic animals weren't enough for their customers, so the business owners had to sell them something else to prevent them going to the police. They searched and searched, and eventually found a way to capture the most exotic animal of all! Spirits! They captured lost souls that lingered in this plane of existence, bottled them up, and sold them! Didn't you read the sign? "Buy One, Get one Half Off!"? The second 'one' wasn't capitalized, where every other word was! It was a message to the exotic animal traders that something new was ready for them. Human souls! We walked in on a ritual for the imprisonment of human souls. The dancing, the singing… It was all meant to lock the souls forever in their bottles. I can prove it! When we went inside, the lights were turned off to prevent us from seeing the caged animals, but a different light came on. The bottle on the floor, with the red soul inside it! They finished the ritual out in the lot, causing the soul to glow, because it knew it was trapped. It asked me to buy a car; it wanted me to save it… but, I didn't know what to do. And so, that's why we just left without investigating further. Do you get it?"

John stared at Sherlock, mouth agape. "Are you serious?!"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "No, I'm not serious! It's All Hallow's Eve, John, of course there would be drunken teenagers out partying. Of course I'm not serious."

John blinked at Sherlock, and then both simultaneously burst into laughter. Sherlock's deep chortles resonated in the air, mixing with John's helpless giggles. What a strange night it had been! Both men were glad it had ended on such a light note, free of peanut butter and John sandwiches and frontal lobotomies alike. Sherlock could now say that he was completely cured of wanting a car of his own.

"Mate," John said between giggles, "this is why we don't go to disreputable car dealerships at two o'clock in the bloody morning!"


End file.
